


cautionary tale

by happyrobins



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Clone Angst, Clones, Cryogenics, Gen, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyrobins/pseuds/happyrobins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on <a href="http://youngjusticeaskgreganswers.tumblr.com/post/31306927392/why-did-queen-bee-want-robin-taken-in-alive-in">this</a> Ask Greg:</p><p>Q: "Why did Queen Bee want Robin taken in alive in Bereft?"</p><p>A: "Think of Speedy as a cautionary tale."</p>
            </blockquote>





	cautionary tale

_“Who are you?”_  Batman growls in the impostor’s ear.   
  
He’s vaguely suspected that something’s been wrong for weeks now.  _Weeks._  How could it have taken him so long to finally realize that the boy in front of him, wearing the Robin uniform—that he has no right to wear— is nothing more than a fake?  
  
How could it have taken him so long to notice that Dick is missing?  
  
And the most frightening question of all, that makes the blood in his veins run cold with dread:  _What if it’s too late to find him?_  
  
Bruce brushed off Dick’s strange behaviour lately, thinking that he just needed to take more time to recover from the Team’s recent disaster of a mission, when Dick was captured by Bialyan militia and held prisoner for six days before the League could locate and rescue him. They found him weak, starving, and with no memory of the last six months. Bruce kept him home from hero work for a while after that so that he could rest and get better.   
  
Whenever Dick was too quiet, or distracted, or made a mistake in training, Bruce simply sent him upstairs to Alfred’s cooking and then bed. But not anymore. Now Bruce is certain. No matter how much he looks like Dick, sounds like him, acts like him… Bruce knows that this boy isn’t the one he took under his wing and trained, the one he adopted.   
  
This isn’t his son.  
  
Bruce has a vise-like grip on the boy’s wrist, twisting his arm up behind his back—it must be painful, but that doesn’t cross Bruce’s mind. Just a couple of seconds ago the boy was laughing and cracking jokes, oblivious to how closely Bruce was listening and that the wheels were turning in his head, figuring it out. The laughter stopped short the moment Bruce whirled around with fire in his eyes.   
  
“B-Bruce, what’re you—?” The boy grunts in pain but doesn’t stop struggling. “Let go!”  
  
“Not until you start talking. Where’s the real Robin?” Bruce demands as harshly as he would of any criminal, tightening his grip even more.  
  
“I don’t know what you mean!” the boy shouts, frustrated. Bruce lets go and the boy stumbles away, fixing his cape and rubbing his shoulder. He glares at Bruce, having the nerve to look accusing. “Will you snap out of it? You’re acting crazy.”  
  
Bruce’s teeth are gritted in barely-controlled rage. He’s been pushed too far. This time, _they’ve gone too far_. The words come out tight and sharp.  _“What happened to Dick?”_  
   
“I—I don’t—” The boy stammers, his face contorting in pain as he falls to his knees on the hard stone and clutches his forehead, taking wheezing breaths. “My head hurts.”  
  
Bruce turns away from the boy kneeling on the floor and looking up at him with pleading, confused blue eyes.  
  
“Bruce…” The voice is so small, almost lost in the empty cave. Bruce steels himself as he stands in front of the computer and sends an alert to the Justice League. He won’t allow himself to feel any shred of sympathy for this fake, this spy that took the place of his partner and ward. “Bruce, it’s  _me_.”  
  
_No. No, it isn’t._  
  


—

  
Dick’s heart is pounding in fear and anticipation when he steps out of the light of the zeta tube into Mount Justice. He only has a second before Bruce arrives after him, and he has to make it count. He already has a plan.  
  
The rest of his team is there, and they smile over at him. Training practice is winding down, and Black Canary already left. Dick missed training today because Bruce wanted to keep an eye on him. Bruce thought he wasn’t fully recovered from his imprisonment in Bialya. But he is. He is  _fine_. Just a little dizzy sometimes. Maybe he’s coming down with a cold. That explains the headaches, like the one he had in the Batcave.  
  
His friends look so happy to see him. Has it been that long since he came to a Team meeting? Right now they have no clue how screwed up everything is. Bruce is acting insane, and so was J’onn. All that stuff about him being a clone is crazy. They’re obviously being influenced by something, and Dick needs the Team’s help to snap them out of it.   
  
_“M’gann, I need you to set up the mind-link,”_  Dick demands in his head, trying to make his thoughts loud enough for her to notice. _“Now.”_  
  
The zeta tube grinds to a halt once Bruce appears. A dark-gloved hand is placed on Dick’s shoulder, feeling more like a warning than comfort, and Dick tenses at the touch.   
  
M’gann is the first to pick up on it. She must sense the sudden mistrust between the two of them. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Rob?” Wally asks concernedly, frowning at the anxious expression on Dick’s face.  
  
“This isn’t Robin,” Bruce tells the group of confused teens.   
  
_“M’gann?”_  Dick tries again. He wants to shove Bruce’s hand off his shoulder because that’s  _not Bruce_. Bruce is being controlled by the bad guys somehow, which is one of Dick’s worst nightmares. He pushes back any panic, keeping his cool like Bruce taught him.   
  
The headache is thrumming insistently at his temples.  
  
_“It’s set up,”_  M’gann responds. _“But I don’t understand—”_  
  
_“Rob, what’s going on?”_  Wally butts in.   
  
“He’s a clone,” Bruce is saying. All around, eyes widen in shock. Dick’s teammates look from him to Batman disbelievingly. “When Robin was captured in Bialya, he was replaced by a clone, that we believe was created with DNA salvaged after your infiltration of CADMUS. The Robin that was rescued— _him_ —isn’t the real Robin. He was intended to grant his creators access to the Justice League’s computer database, send them important information, and sabotage us.”  
  
_“Guys! I’m not a clone! Something’s wrong with Batman and the League. I think they’re being mind-controlled or something. They’re trying to turn you against me. I’m—”_  
  
A wave of pain crashes over him. He feels like his brain is being clenched, crushed. He has to shut his eyes behind his sunglasses and wait for the agony to subside. Everyone else connected to his mind winces along with him.  
  
He feels the mind-link snap and slip away.  _No._  
  
Bruce can’t possibly fail to notice the reaction mirrored in each of the teens. “Miss Martian, what is he telling you?”  
  
“That you’re lying,” she says hesitantly. “This doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
“How can he be a clone? He’s— He’s  _Robin_ ,” Artemis says, gesturing at him like that is all the proof they need.  
  
“Martian Manhunter delved into his mind and confirmed it,” Bruce says. “He’s a sleeper agent, currently unaware that he’s a clone. He has subconscious programming to betray us. Even he doesn’t know about it. All of Robin’s memories have been implanted in him. That is why he thinks he’s truly Robin.”  
  
“You guys aren’t actually believing this, are you?” Dick asks angrily, his voice rising. Even Wally is looking at him doubtfully.  
  
“With the state of denial he’s in, we were unable to unlock his real memories and show him proof of his programming without damaging his mind. His guard was too high. He thinks the Justice League is being controlled—”  
  
“Because you  _are_ ,” Dick says accusingly.  
  
Bruce frowns down at him, then looks back towards the Team. “Miss Martian, I need you to go into his mind and show him the truth. He trusts all of you more than he trusts us right now.”  
  
Dick lets out a quiet breath of relief. Good, he’ll get a chance to prove that the Justice League’s off their rocker.  
  
His headache is still pounding away, painful pressure building up behind his eyes. M’gann’s hands against the sides his head, just above his ears, give a sensation like a static shock and then the rest of the world is fading away. He’s trapped in his own mind with that pain that reminds him of angry wasps and deafening TV static.  
  
A force—M’gann—is pushing the pain aside and guiding him gently to the center of his mind. Her mental touch is cool against frenzied, feverish thoughts. Something in his mind shifts, unknots, loosens.   
  
He cries out as memories come flooding back. “No!”  
  
He remembers medical equipment. Bubbles and everything tinted green.  
  
“N-No, I’m…”  
  
Taking his first real breath. Feeling dry air.  
  
“I’m…”  
  
A blade pressing into his leg.  _(Have to make it convincing—Batman will notice if the kid’s missing scars.)_  
  
“I’m not a clone!”  
  
A voice in his head, intrusive and not kind like M’gann’s, that fed him memories, _a whole life_ , lies, instructions.  _(We’ll have an untraceable server set up to receive the data…)_  
  
“I’m  _not_.”  
  
Dick’s gasping. The only thing keeping him from falling over is Bruce’s tight grip on his arm. “I’m not,” he says over and over in broken murmurs like he can somehow make it true. But it isn’t. He knows it now, and so do his teammates. Their eyes won’t stop staring at him. Wary, horrified, suspicious. He’s lost their belief in him, and he’ll never ever get it back.  
  
The pain in his head is too much. Blacking out is a relief.  
  


—

  
For a few blissful seconds after Dick wakes up, he thinks he’s himself. He wonders what he’s doing in his bedroom at Mount Justice and why M’gann is sitting beside his bed, watching him with a worried expression. Did he get hurt on a mission, or—?  
  
And then reality comes crashing down on him. He almost gags when he remembers what he is. The memories are there in his head, undeniable.  
  
With the headache gone everything seems very silent and still. There’s nothing to distract him from the truth.  
  
“I got rid of the programming,” M’gann says. “It was easy when you were asleep. I think I got all of it, but you’re supposed to stay here for a few days until we’re sure. Uncle J’onn will probably want to check, too.”  
  
“Okay,” says Dick. Can he even call himself Dick anymore? He’s not Dick, he’s not Robin… He tries not to think about that. He doesn’t want to break down, not while one of his friends is in the room. He hoists himself up on his elbows and turns to sit on the edge of the bed instead of lying down. “Where is everyone?”  
  
“Batman sent them to Bialya, to where the Justice League found you. There might be clues to where… Robin is.” She hesitates when saying the name, like she feels guilty using it around him and reminding him of who he isn’t.  
  
“And Batman?”   
  
M’gann bites her lip. She breaks the news carefully. “He… He left. To start his investigation. He said he has a lot of work to do.”  
  
“Oh. Yeah, I bet he does.” Dick does his best not to sound disappointed and pathetic. He shouldn’t be surprised that Bruce isn’t here. Of course Bruce’s top priority isn’t him, it’s finding the real Dick Grayson. He shouldn’t be surprised. He shouldn’t be hurt.  
  
They’re both quiet for a few moments. “Do you want to go make some brownies?” M’gann asks finally. It’s such a  _normal_  question to ask while Dick feels like he’s supposed to be questioning the nature of his existence that he almost laughs out loud.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
So they go to the kitchen and bake. The brownies end up being really good, almost as good as Alfred’s—his heart twists painfully because  _oh god, what will Alfred think of all this?_ —but Dick is having trouble stomaching anything, even fresh brownies.  
  
M’gann’s niceness seems so forced. Fake. The small smile never leaves her face, but her eyes are sad when they fall upon him. Her nervousness shows in how many accidents she has during the baking. She’s clumsy and distracted. She drops an egg, spills flour, almost smashes a dish while cleaning up…  
  
Dick realizes that this is how they’re all going to act around him from now on.

 

  
—  
  
“We searched CADMUS again,” Clark says, though the man sitting in front of the computer barely seems to be listening. “There was no sign of Dick. No clues. If he was there, he’s not anymore.” Bruce grunts and doesn’t look away from the soft glow of the computer screen. The Batcave is empty and quiet without Robin jumping around the place, being a clash of colour and noise against cold grey stone. “What are you reading?”  
  
“I hacked into their files,” says Bruce. Clark crosses his arms and wonders about the legality of that. Wonders, but doesn’t bring it up and risk being unceremoniously booted out of the cave. Bruce is in too foul of a mood. His eyes are bloodshot and his voice hoarse from even less sleep than usual. He’ll bite Clark’s head off at the slightest provocation. “I’m trying to find an electronic trail. The unknown employer that contracted CADMUS to create Superboy will have had access to the plans for the technology to clone Dick.”  
  
“So, whoever they are, they worked with Queen Bee to make this happen.”  
  
“When they were telepathically implanting Dick’s memories into the clone, they must have learned who he was. But I haven’t gotten any threats of blackmail. It hasn’t made the news. The Manor hasn’t been targeted.” Bruce sits back in his chair and contemplates, holding his hands just in front of his face with his fingers interlaced. “Ra’s al Ghul has known our identities for years without revealing them.”  
  
“If it’s the League of Shadows, then let’s take a group to Infinity Island,” says Clark, surprised that Bruce hasn’t already ordered him to hurry up and do that. Sure, storming the stronghold is a huge risk, but they’ll stop at nothing to save Dick. “Search the place top to bottom until we find Dick or Ra’s al Ghul.”  
  
“Dick won’t be there. He won’t be at any Shadows hideout we know about. Ra’s al Ghul is smarter than that. We vex Ra’s, and he’ll make it so we never find Dick. If he even has him. We need to locate where they’re keeping Dick without tipping them off, if possible.”  
  
“Any plan in mind?”  
  
“I’m working on it,” mutters Bruce.  
  
“I can tell,” Clark says. “Dinah’s been talking with Dick’s clone, trying to help him come to terms with who he is.” Or rather, who he isn’t. Bruce is scrolling through streams of data, paying even less attention than before. Clark sighs. “I know you don’t think of him as Dick, but to him you’re still Bruce. He’s going through a lot. He needs you. To him, you’re like a fa—”  
  
“I don’t have time for that,” says Bruce dismissively.  
  
Clark blinks in surprise and frowns. “Are you serious? After you kept insisting I spend time with Superboy, when you’re in the same situation you become a hypocrite and ignore the boy?” And this is even worse, because the clone has all of Dick’s memories. He must feel the same way Dick would if he was being ignored by Bruce.  
  
“He isn’t a clone of  _me,_ ” says Bruce shortly, tearing his eyes away from the computer screen for the first time and meeting Clark’s. There’s desperation there, in his red-rimmed eyes and the tautness of his jaw and the quiet bark of his voice. Clark’s seen Bruce in some bad states before, but never like this. “He’s a clone of  _Dick_. Dick, who is currently in the hands of the enemy and has been for  _weeks_  now. I’ve been spending every minute of every day trying to find him. When I say,  _‘I don’t have time for that’_ , I’m not making an excuse. I  _don’t have time for that_.”  
  


—

  
For a few days, Dick is under observation. He feels like a patient with some contagious disease. They keep him in the Cave and watch him in case he gets the sudden urge to sell them out to the bad guys. That doesn’t happen; M’gann’s deprogramming worked. J’onn confirmed it. Even so, he stays at the Cave. They don’t know what to do with him. He might as well stay out of the way for now.   
  
His zeta access is technically restricted, although he can easily hack into the Cave’s computer (which he’s not supposed to use) and override it, if he really wants to. He doesn’t.   
  
He doesn’t want to go back to Gotham, and have to face Alfred and Bruce and school and a life that was never his. He’ll just be a bother to Bruce while he works on finding the actual Robin.  
  
It’s less lonely in this cave than the Batcave. M’gann and Conner take some days off school to spend time with him. Kaldur’s around pretty often. Red Tornado’s still missing—which sucks because the robot would be the only one to treat Dick the same as always—so Black Canary has volunteered to be their den mother and comes by most days to check up on him.  
  
He hasn’t seen Artemis and Wally since the night he found out he was a clone. Artemis is busy starting at a new school, so maybe the reason she hasn’t shown up isn’t because she hates him. But Wally… He and Wally used to talk every single day.  
  
That’s why it’s such a big deal—such a  _huge_  deal—to Dick when Wally finally does show up at the Cave.  
  
Dick is sitting alone in the living room playing a video game when Wally walks in. He wanted something simple and distracting to keep his mind off of everything, so he’s repeatedly leveling up his character.  
  
“Hey,” Wally says, and sits down beside him. He’s not smiling and his green eyes have that same sad, wary look in them that Dick’s been getting from everyone else, but at least he’s here.  
  
It’s awkward. It is. A minute or two pass where Wally sits stiffly on the sofa and neither of them say anything—what can they possibly talk about?—while Dick presses buttons in the same pattern he’s been using for over an hour, defeating more enemies and gaining more points.  
  
It gets better when Wally picks up a second controller and they switch to multiplayer. They actually start speaking to each other. Short, game-related things, like:  _‘Watch out for the ninjas’_  and  _‘There’s weapon upgrades on the next floor’_.  
  
It’s normal, and familiar. The endless clack of buttons, Wally’s frustrated grunts when his character takes a hit, and Dick racking up more points than him like always.  
  
It’s almost enough to make Dick forget the past few days.  
  
Wally makes a rookie mistake by setting off a fireball trap, and Dick snickers. The laugh dies out quickly when Wally looks over at Dick with wide eyes, his face frozen in a stunned expression, then stands up and places his game controller on the coffee table.   
  
Dick’s about to tell him that it’s nothing to get upset over. Look, his character’s got an extra life and is already revived, so they can still complete the level. Why’s he being so—  
  
Oh. Right. That’s not what this is about.  
  
“I can’t do this,” Wally says, running a shaky hand through his red hair. He takes a step back, a step away. “I tried, and thought I could, but I can’t. Okay? I just can’t.”    
  
Dick has the unpleasant thought that maybe Wally only came to see him because Barry or someone told him to.  
  
“I’m really sorry,” Dick says. He draws his knees up against his chest and crosses his arms around them. “About everything. You can go, if you want. It’s fine.”  
  
Wally is hovering between leaving like he wants to, and staying from guilt. He stands by the far end of the sofa, one hand gripping the back of it. “It’s my fault. If I was faster and found him in the desert, he wouldn’t have been…” His voice trails off and he clenches his eyes shut for a moment, then opens them again and looks at Dick dourly. “If we don’t find him then are you going to like, pretend to be him? Just take over his life?”  
  
“I don’t know…”   
  
Dick has no idea what’s to become of him. But he’ll be lying if he says that idea hasn’t come to mind.   
  
He wishes more than anything that he can wake up and have everything be what it used to be. He longs for his life to go back to normal, and so a small, selfish, deeply buried part of him hopes that they won’t find the real Dick Grayson. He feels sick for wanting that but it’s the only way. And sure, things won’t go back to normal immediately, but maybe everyone will get used to him over time and forget…?  
  
_Or not,_  he thinks when he sees the stony expression on Wally’s face.  
  
“Don’t,” Wally says firmly. He rubs at his forehead with his sleeve like he’s exhausted. “Just… don’t. That’s so wrong.” He glances away, down at his feet, and gives a quiet sniff. In a small voice, he says, “I miss him.”  
  
_I’m right here!_  Dick wants to shout, but he knows it’s not the same thing. He’s only making this more difficult. The reason everyone keeps him at arm’s length isn’t because he’s a clone, or because he was made to help destroy them. It’s because he’s a flesh-and-blood ghost of a lost boy. A shallow, walking and talking imitation of someone nobody wants to admit could be dead.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Dick apologizes again.  
  
“We were… We were supposed to go see that new zombie movie on Thursday. We were talking about it for months.”  
  
“I was really excited. I pre-ordered the tickets last week, before…” Before he found out that he’s a clone. Dick swallows down bitter disappointment. “You’re still my best friend, Wally.”  
  
The words slip out, and he mentally kicks himself. He shouldn’t have said that. Is he _trying_  to freak Wally out?  
  
Because he’s sure succeeding. Wally gives Dick that same frozen look he gave when Dick laughed earlier.   
  
Wally walks backwards to the door, explaining as he goes: “I should go home—dinner’s soon. I might be back tomorrow, though. And I’ll, uh, let you know about the zombies.”  
  
Dick doesn’t get his hopes up.  
  


—

  
Wally does come by more often after that, because the Team is going on back-to-back missions, night after night, following possible leads on the real Robin. They gather, read over the mission brief Batman has sent them (he doesn’t have time to come to Mount Justice in person) and quickly head out on the bio-ship.   
  
Since Dick is technically still under observation, he’s not allowed to go with them. A few times they’ve called him at Mount Justice, asking him to hack some system wirelessly for them, and he’s happy to help out. It’s not enough, though. He’s restless.  
  
When he gets to talk to Artemis for the first time since he learned he’s a clone, it’s right before a mission. The first mission since his talk with Wally.  
  
He’s in the mission room, aimlessly scrolling through glowing blue news feeds and the JLA database, when Artemis zetas in from Gotham. She’s wearing her green superhero outfit and her quiver is full of arrows, ready for that night’s mission.   
  
She pauses and stares at him for a split second, having to make the conscious decision to act normal around him, like he’s Robin. There was a time when his friends  _naturally_ acted normal around him—because that’s the whole  _definition_  of normal, and their imitation of it lately isn’t even close no matter how hard they try. He mourns the loss of that.  
  
“Hey, Artemis,” Dick says, fully aware that his attempt at normal isn’t coming off as normal, either.  
  
“Hi.” She walks closer and looks over his shoulder at the floating holo-screen. “So… what’re you doing?”  
  
“Trying to help find Robin.”  
  
“Yeah? Any leads?”  
  
“No,” he says with a defeated sigh. Artemis frowns with him, understanding his frustration. It’s the only thing that’s been on anyone’s minds lately: the real Robin. “Besides, Batman’s already combed through this data and I won’t discover anything that he didn’t already. I was just bored.” Dick collapses all the computer windows. It’s pointless. The entire search effort seems pointless, and he doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel guilty or relieved.  
  
Dick can tell that Artemis is uncertain around him by the way she shifts her weight slightly from foot to foot. That can change. He might be able to fix this, even though he definitely can’t fix things with Wally and probably can’t with the others, either.   
  
Artemis is different. Artemis hasn’t known Robin that long, and a good portion of the time she has known him was actually spent with  _him_ , not the real one. So maybe he has a chance to really, truly get somebody on his side. That would mean a lot.  
  
 “Artemis, I’m really sorry that I made you believe I was the real Robin,” he blurts out before he can second-guess himself.  
  
“What?” she asks, bewildered. That’s obviously not what she was expecting. “ _You_ believed you were him. It’s not your fault.”  
  
“But, still. You trusted me, and I pretty much deceived you. I know how much that must…” He pauses and rubs at the back of his neck in thought, trying to word it right. “I mean, I just don’t want there to be hard feelings.”  
  
“The Robin that fought the Reds with me…” Artemis says, crossing her arms. Her eyes drift across the room, and Dick can tell she’s remembering how the air in here crackled with violent, swirling flames that one terrible night just over a week ago. “That was you, right?”  
  
Dick nods. “And I’m the one that…” He stops himself, cringes inwardly. Can’t believe he almost let that slip.  
  
“That what?” she prods.  
  
_Snuck up behind you and took that picture of us on the first day of school._  
  
That was _him_ , actually him, not the real Dick. His joke, his picture, his secret. But he isn’t allowed to tell her that Dick Grayson and Robin are the same person, so he pulls something unimportant out of thin air.  
  
“That watched that Celebrity Hockey marathon with you and Wally,” he says.  
  
She blinks, and side-eyes him a bit. “Oh… Yeah, I guess you’re right.” That smile on her face isn’t hers. It’s forced and it doesn’t belong to her and he immediately knows that he’s blown his chance. It wasn’t enough. “Is M’gann around?” she asks.  
  
“In her bedroom, I think.”  
  
“Oh. Okay.” Artemis stops just before the doorway, turning around and asking, “You coming on the mission today?”  
  
He only wishes. “No, I’m still not allowed.”  
  
“Sucks,” she says. It’s just a scrap of sympathy tossed his way, but it makes him smile at her as she walks out of the room to find M’gann.  
  
Alone, Dick wonders if that picture would have been enough to win Artemis back. To prove that he’s her friend. He probably won’t ever know.  
  


—

  
Conner’s sitting at the kitchen counter and working on a history essay, scowling as he thumbs through a book. He was unhappy to hear from Dick that, no,  _“I learned it from a psychic G-Gnome”_  does not count as a credible source, and he’ll have to do the research and get references for his facts like everyone else.  
  
Across the counter, Dick is trying to do some math exercises—old homework he never got around to finishing—but he can’t concentrate and ends up doodling aimlessly in the margins of the paper.  
  
“So, we’re kinda going through the same thing, huh?” he asks Conner after a while.  
  
“Yeah, I guess we’re alike. Both clones.” Conner looks up from his book, his dark eyebrows knitted together. “Is… Is being a clone that different than being like everyone else?”  
  
“Uh, no. Not really,” says Dick, his face flushing in embarrassment because  _whoa_  he’s being insensitive, isn’t he? He’s unsure whether or not he’s simply lying to keep Conner from feeling bad. It feels like a lie, settling heavily in the pit of his stomach like one.  
  
“You’ve been really unhappy since you found out,” Conner points out.  
  
“It’s not the clone thing. It’s the finding-out-my-whole-life-was-a-lie thing. I was totally happy, living my life like normal, and then suddenly,  _bam!_  I’m not the real Robin. Even though I still feel like him,” Dick tries to explain. Well, it’s partly the clone thing, but he doesn’t want to say that out loud around Conner. “Maybe we  _aren’t_ going through the same thing. I mean, your life is all your own. You’re Superboy, not Superman. You’re Conner. I’m just a copy of Robin, and I’ll probably spend the rest of my life wishing that I’m actually him. And that…” He sucks a breath in between his teeth. “That  _really_  sucks.”  
  
“If you want, you can ask M’gann to think of a new name for you,” says Conner. He looks uncomfortable, like he wishes he could do something more for Dick but doesn’t know how. “I think she’s started a list.”  
  
“Not today. But thanks, I’ll think about it.” Dick ducks his head down over his paper and starts filling in a sketch of the Bat symbol. He pauses, frowns, then scribbles over it messily. That makes it look more like a bird, if he squints.  
  
“Sometimes I wish I was Superman,” Conner admits after a stretch of silence. “He still hates me.”  
  
“He doesn’t  _hate_  you. He’s just… being dumb.” Even to Dick’s own ears it sounds lame. It’s getting impossible to keep making excuses for Clark. “Are we having a ‘whose life sucks more’ contest? Because that’s just gonna make us both feel bad.” Also Dick’s pretty sure he’d win that, based on the past few days. “Superman’s been ignoring you, and now Batman’s too busy to talk to me,” he says miserably. “How do you deal with that?”  
  
“I’ll let you know,” Conner mumbles. “Sorry I don’t have any advice to give you.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine,” says Dick, and this time he  _knows_  that’s a lie. It’s not fine. Couldn’t possibly be fine. And some solid advice is exactly what he could use right now.  
  


—

  
Dick takes initiative. He waits by the zeta tube and intercepts Kaldur the moment he arrives. “Kaldur, I want to go on the mission tonight,” he says confidently.  
  
The response is as he expected. “Have you received Batman’s permission?” asks Kaldur as the yellow glow dims behind him.   
  
Dick frowns. “…Not exactly,” he admits. Before Kaldur can make up his mind and say no, Dick quickly adds, “But,  _come on_. I know I’m not the real Robin, but I— I’m exactly like him. I can fight. I know everything he knew. I helped save you guys from the Reds!”   
  
Actually, he got captured and nearly drowned while trying to save them, and Artemis was the one to ultimately stop the robots, but he  _did_  set up the EMP transmitter. That has to count for something.  
  
“I know,” says Kaldur. Dick’s about to scoff because Kaldur’s only saying that—he doesn’t mean it, or even care—but Kaldur stops him by placing a hand on his shoulder and stressing, “I  _know_ , Robin. However, Batman is the one in charge of deploying us on missions, and without his approval you cannot be allowed out in the field.” Dick can’t be mad at Kaldur because he does look genuinely apologetic. “I am sorry.”  
  
“Your hands are tied. I get it.” Dick lets out a short, sharp sigh and tries not to sound pleading when he says, “Can you just… I don’t know… ask him? Please? I’m going insane being stuck in this cave all the time.”  
  
“I have spoken to him about it. He made his decision clear,” says Kaldur. He winces slightly at the memory, making Dick wonder exactly how disastrous that discussion was. “Perhaps it would be best if you spoke to him personally.”  
  
“Um. Yeah, I probably should,” Dick says, offering a weak smile to hide his doubt. “Thanks, Kaldur.”  
  
He never realized that Kaldur already spoke to Bruce once on his behalf, and for that he feels a rush of gratitude. But trying to make Kaldur do it a second time is asking too much. Bruce can be terrifying to those that don’t know him, especially when he’s as stressed as he must be now.  
  
And for the first time, Dick knows what that fear is like. He’s never been really scared of Bruce before, not even when Bruce lectured him angrily those times he screwed up in the field, but just the thought of facing Bruce after all of this makes his palms sweat and his heart race. Cowardly as it is, he wishes Kaldur—or anybody—could convince Bruce for him.  
  


—

  
One afternoon, Dick hears Kaldur and Roy having a rather serious discussion. About _him_. He slows to a halt in the hallway, listening to their voices drifting through the ajar door of the meeting room.  
  
They’re talking about the mole. And apparently Roy believes it’s him.  _Well, duh_ , Dick thinks sardonically. The bad guys didn’t create him to replace the real Robin just for laughs.  
  
He leans his back against the wall, settling in to listen. He should feel bad about eavesdropping, and he knows that he won’t like whatever they’re bound to say about him, but he’s so bored that he can’t help but stay there, near their voices. The rest of the Cave’s too empty right now. Lonely. Or maybe that’s just him.  
  
“We should have seen it coming from miles off,” Roy is saying. “Robin gets captured in Bialya, Sportsmaster gloats about an inside source… It was so  _obvious_.”  
  
“I am not so certain it was him,” Kaldur disagrees. “Not entirely.”  
  
“What? He’s a spy. A clone programmed to betray you. How the hell can you doubt it after those robots got access to the cave and nearly slaughtered you and your whole team?”  
  
“Martian Manhunter and M’gann both scanned his memories and confirmed that he did not fulfill his programmed objectives. He was not responsible for the incident with Red Inferno and Torpedo.”  
  
“Or so they think. He could have them fooled. I can’t believe you guys think it’s a good idea to have him here in the Cave. He’s like a time bomb. He could turn on you at any second,” Roy warns in a low voice. It’s not quiet enough to keep Dick from hearing every word. “Be careful, Kaldur. He’s your mole. Don’t let your guard down, and don’t trust anything he says.”  
  
Roy leaves in a hurry, no time left to talk. Dick doesn’t make any move to hide even though he could easily disappear around the corner without being seen or heard. He doesn’t care if he gets caught listening in. He just doesn’t care anymore. Roy brushes past him in the hallway without pause. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even look at him, like he’s scared to make eye contact.  
  
Dick looks away from Roy’s retreating back and frowns down at his feet, thinking hard. There’s some niggling little thought at the back of his mind—something important that he’s having trouble remembering—but it’s just out of his grasp.  
  


—

  
Dick finally caves in and leaves for the Batcave. Nobody notices he’s leaving because nobody’s at Mount Justice. M’gann and Conner couldn’t skip school forever. Everyone else has lives and he’s in limbo.  
  
He blinks away the spots left in his vision by the flash of the zeta beam, and feels all the wound-up tension in his body ease because he’s _home_. The bats are rustling overhead and he can hear the underground river running smoothly through the far, dark corners of the cavern.   
  
The computer monitors are blank. Bruce isn’t here. But he hasn’t been gone for long—Dick touches the side of the coffee mug resting by the keyboard and finds it slightly above lukewarm. Bruce either went to work, or—more likely—the Watchtower.  
  
Dick walks up the stairs to the Manor, breathing in the familiar smell of polished hardwood and old furniture and fresh baking when he pushes aside the grandfather clock. He wanders the halls until he finds Alfred polishing silverware in the dining room.  
  
“Good afternoon, Master Richard,” Alfred greets him, not seeming the tiniest bit startled to see him here so suddenly. Alfred smiles and Dick can’t get over the fact that Alfred called him by his  _name_. His friends still hesitate (almost imperceptibly, but he always notices) when calling him Robin.   
  
He rushes straight towards the butler and hugs him as tightly as he can, and this time Alfred  _is_  a bit startled. Alfred isn’t a huggy person. Even if he might be slightly uncomfortable, he still pats Dick on the back.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Dick says when he releases Alfred.  
  
“It is quite alright, sir.”  
  
“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t be here,” Dick confesses, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking down at his feet, feeling so heavy with guilt that he can barely keep his head up straight. “I’m not the real Dick Grayson. I’m not even a real person. I’m just a copy.”  
  
One eyebrow arched, Alfred studies Dick for a moment. “I see,” he says finally, returning to his task with the silverware. “It’s a pity,” he remarks off-handedly, without glancing up. “I was just about to take a batch of scones out of the oven, but since you aren’t  _‘a real person’_ , as you say, I doubt you’ll be able to enjoy them.”  
  
Alfred has this talent where he can make an incredibly astute and solid point in the most succinct way possible. It’s why they avoid arguing with him at all costs.  
  
“I… I’d enjoy them a little bit…” Dick admits sheepishly.  
  


—

  
Alfred sort of assumes that Dick is back to live at the manor, and Dick is grateful that someone else made the decision because he was never actually told how long his stay at Mount Justice was supposed to last. Dick gets the impression that Alfred was just waiting for him to come back. He’s still waiting, though.  
  
Dick gets to choose between his old room or a spare one. He chooses his old one. He doubts that the real Dick will mind, much like he doubts the real Dick will mind that he’s going to take his place at school tomorrow—Alfred keeps hinting that he should, probably tired of having to call in sick for him. Someone’s gotta keep the grades up.  
  
Dick knows that Alfred hasn’t lost hope that the actual Dick Grayson will come back. He’s just being practical until they can think of what else to do. And he’s better than most people at hiding how sad he is.   
  
After dinner, which Bruce didn’t join them for because he still wasn’t home, Dick goes down to the Batcave and puts on his Robin uniform.  
  
He pulls on the gloves last, skipping the mask. He’s missed this. The secure fit of the armored fabric. The soft weight of the cape. Confident. Strong. Robin is someone with purpose and direction. Couldn’t be more different than how Dick’s been feeling lately.  
  
He turns on the computer and checks on the progress of Bruce’s search for the real Dick Grayson. His review of the information is interrupted by the zeta tube flaring to life behind him, nearly making him jump out of his seat in fear. This is too soon. What made him think he was ready for this confrontation? Because he’s  _not._  
  
Bruce walks out of the light, pulling his cowl back. He’s a mess. Must be days since he’s slept, shaved, or showered.  
  
It’s the first time Dick’s seen Bruce since the man outed him as a clone and a preprogrammed traitor. Bruce wasn’t happy with him then, and he’s not happy now.  
  
Bruce takes one look at Dick—no,  _Robin_ —and the line of his frown tightens. “Go get changed,” he says as he walks up the stairs towards Dick. “You shouldn’t be wearing that uniform.”  
  
“Why not?” Dick asks, standing tall and trying to appear confident while his heart is pounding so fast and hard that Bruce can probably hear it. “It’s mine, too. I’m just as qualified for the job as he was. I should be helping you. You  _need_  me. I can help you look for the real Robin, or I can go patrol ‘cause Gotham’s got to be a mess with all the time you’ve been spending on the search.”  
  
“You can’t,” Bruce orders calmly. “I’m saying no.” He moves like he wants to get to the computer, except Dick is in his way and isn’t budging.  
  
There are times when Dick takes Batman’s orders without question. This time he’s questioning them. He stands his ground and looks Bruce right in the eyes. “Give me a reason.”  
  
“You aren’t as good as Dick.”  
  
“What?” Dick exclaims in outrage. “I’m  _exactly_ —”  
  
“You have his memories, and you’ve been engineered to have the same muscular structure and physical make-up as him, but that’s no substitute for experience.  Your body is new. You don’t have the same muscle memory he gained through years of practice. That’s why you kept hesitating and making mistakes in training. That’s what made me realize that you’re not him.”  
  
“Even if I’m not  _as_  good, I’m still good  _enough_. I have to go out there. I took the vow to help people—”  
  
“ _He_  did. You didn’t,” Bruce says, and it’s like a knife through the ribs.  
  
“Fine!” Dick raises his right hand up halfway and begins to recite the oath loudly. “I promise loyalty, secrecy, and courage.”   
  
Bruce watches him silently. He doesn’t interrupt, but he has that hard, determined look in his eyes like he’s already made his decision and nothing will change it. Dick recites the oath louder with each word.  
  
“I swear to— to fight against c-crime and corruption—” His voice starts breaking.   
  
It’s just  _not fair_  that he has to prove himself like this again.   
  
“—and— and n-never swerve from the path of—” He’s so mad that his throat locks and he can’t even choke out the rest of it.   
  
Bruce’s hands are on his shoulders, clutching tightly like he thinks Dick might run away, or lash out, or fall apart from how badly he’s shaking.  
  
Dick’s shaking because he’s never been so angry at Bruce before. He slams both of his fists against Bruce’s chest, but that doesn’t even make a dent against the body armor and it doesn’t make him feel less livid.  
  
Bruce lets go of him once he’s taken a few deep breaths and calms down, the surge of rage ebbing but not quite dying. He’s still  _mad_. Mad at Bruce and the real Dick Grayson and the people that cloned him, and Wally and the rest of the Team, and himself. He can feel the rage festering. Waiting.   
  
“Bruce, why can’t you just treat me the same as him?” Dick asks quietly.  
  
“I can’t become complacent. There’s no option except finding Dick. I can’t let myself forget that.”  
  
“What if he’s dead?”  
  
Dick thought the question would make Bruce angry but he just looks sad, and that’s worse. Bruce is the smartest person he knows, and he’s already accepted that the real Dick being dead is by far the most likely possibility.  
  
“I’ll still find him. I owe him that.” Bruce steps around Dick and sits down in front of the computer. Conversation over. Like always,  _Bruce_  decides when it ends. He tells Dick over his shoulder, “It’s late. Go upstairs to bed. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”  
  
Dick crosses his arms and starts to turn toward the zeta tube. “I’ll go back to Mount Justice instead. You don’t want me here.”  
  
“Dick, go upstairs,” says Bruce tiredly, rubbing his exhaustion-lined forehead as the computer boots up again.  
  


—

  
Bruce didn’t send Dick’s clone to live at Mount Justice for all those days because he wanted to push him away, he did it because he knew he wouldn’t be very good company for the boy. Almost all of his time is spend between the Batcave and the Watchtower. He rarely ventures up to the house. The employees at his company think he’s on vacation on the other side of the world.  
  
The boy is back at school now, and he goes back to Mount Justice often, but he still has hours at the Manor that used to be filled by patrol or training with Bruce. Bruce won’t yet let him out as Robin. Even so, the boy trains in the gym every night by himself trying to gain enough experience to prove himself and receive Bruce’s blessing.  
  
Two sources of guilt are tugging Bruce in different directions. He doesn’t want to ignore the boy, but he  _can’t_  ignore the search for Dick. The clone isn’t in any danger. Dick is. It’s as simple as that.  
  
Except it isn’t. And he’s reminded of it whenever the boy offers to help him, or speaks, or even when he just sees the boy’s familiar face and has to remind himself that Dick _isn’t_  here, that it  _isn’t_  okay yet.  
  
That’s why he can’t let the boy take over as Robin, no matter how determined he is. It feels too much like replacing his partner. It would make it too easy for Bruce to forget.  
  
He can’t give up on Dick.  
  
He must have fallen asleep for a moment, because he’s awakened by the beeping of the computer in front of him. An incoming message, sender unidentifiable.  
  
Sender unidentifiable. That tells him all he needs. He accepts the message.   
  
He’s been trying to contact her for weeks through every secret frequency he knows the League of Shadows uses, but she was deliberately ignoring the signals. Every message he sent bounced back.  
  
“Talia,” he says. The woman onscreen is as beautiful and proud as the last time he saw her.  
  
He vowed to never see or speak to her again if he could help it. In this case he’s swallowing his pride and his common sense because it is possible that she’s the only person who can help him.  
  
“This is getting tiresome,” Talia says impatiently. “What do you want?”  
  
“You know what I want. Where is Robin?”  
  
“And why would I—”  
  
“Don’t act like you don’t know,” he interrupts sharply.  
  
She watches him and touches the side of her face with her long fingers, contemplating.  
  
If he was anyone else he would be holding his breath nervously in anticipation   
  
“I will be in Gotham at the end of the week,” she says finally. “We will talk then, and I may give you the information you’re looking for.”  
  
“Talia—” he says threateningly, rising up from his chair, but she’s cutting the signal and her face disappears from the screen.  
  
That night he goes into the city and makes every criminal he meets regret ever stepping outside their doors, though he knows it’s not going to make the week pass by any faster.  
  


—

  
“Please, M’gann,” Dick almost pleads. “I need you to do this for me.”  
  
“Are you sure? This is really serious. I— I don’t think I can do it.” She wrings the dishtowel in her hands nervously. Dick cornered her in the kitchen while she was drying the dishes. “If I take away your memories, you’ll barely have a mind left. I can’t—”  
  
“No, don’t erase them.” That isn’t what he meant when he was explaining it to her. “Just… blur them a little bit. Make them fuzzier.”  
  
He doesn’t want to remember all of it so clearly. He doesn’t want to remember hugs from parents he’s never had, or laughing with friends that were never his, or that proud smile Bruce gave him whenever he executed a move properly.  
  
Bruce… Bruce has a lead. A solid lead. He’s taking a team of Leaguers to the location that very minute. No matter the outcome—whether they find the real Dick dead or alive or don’t find him at all—Dick has decided that this is what he wants. It’s _his_  mind, and he wants to make it his own. Clear out the clutter.  
  
He’s made his decision, and nothing’s going to change it.  
  
“Robin…” M’gann says doubtfully, squeezing his hand in her own green one.  
  
“If you don’t, I think I might go insane,” he confesses, hanging his head. “I can’t deal with it anymore. I don’t want to be a— a  _copy_ , and as long as  _his_  memories are rattling around in my head, that’s all I’ll ever be. Sometimes I forget that I’m not him, and then I remember, and… I don’t know how many more times I can go through that. Please, M’gann.”  
  
He’s a bad person and a worse friend for putting her in this position, for making her feel guilty either way. He’s the worst friend on the face of the planet, because even though M’gann doesn’t want to be a part of this, he knows he can convince her to help him.  
  
“It should be reversible,” she says softly. She looks like she might cry. “Maybe not perfectly reversible, but if— if you change your mind soon enough, within a few weeks, we can work on it until it’s back to normal. You just have to ask, and I’ll—”  
  
“I won’t be asking.”  
  


—

  
Bruce thought that Dick was dead. The chances of him being alive had been grim, no matter how he looked at it. Never has he been so glad to be proven wrong.  
  
He stands in front of the glass-fronted chamber holding his ward. Cryogenic, judging by the nature of the surrounding technology and the cool hue inside. He places a hand against the glass and even through his glove it feels cold to the touch.   
  
They froze him solid.   
  
Rage flaring at the thought of his ward being treated like a  _science experiment_ , Bruce takes a deep breath through his nose and resists the urge to storm back outside the room and beat the already beaten guards to a broken, bloody pulp.  
  
Dick’s eyes are closed. He looks peaceful, like he’s just sleeping. But when Bruce looks more closely he can see faint bruises on Dick’s wrists and arms. He struggled. He fought every step of the way.  
  
Bruce’s hand curls into a fist against the glass. It takes all of his will to make himself step back instead of smashing the glass and freeing Dick immediately. Sense is telling him that it’s too risky; that he should examine the nearby computer system before breaking anything, but sense almost isn’t a match for his outrage at seeing Dick trapped inside what looks too much like a coffin.  
  


—

  
A rush of warmth hits his body, and it’s too much. His numb skin is starting to burn, burn and heat up and it  _hurts_ , like white-hot needles stabbing into his flesh. His heart stutters to a start in his chest.   
  
He’s falling. He can feel gravity tugging him down, but he can’t move his arms or legs to stop himself.  
  
_He’s falling, just like—_  
  
Someone catches him and lowers him gently to the ground. Warm, leather-clad hands support him and feel his neck for the sluggish pulse there. He is choking on air, hiccuping, relearning how to breathe because it feels like it’s been years since he used his lungs.  
  
Fingers pry apart his eyelids, and his surroundings are blurry and bright.  _Too bright!_ He winces away from the light in discomfort.  
  
Then he is being bundled up in some smooth, dark material— _Batman’s cape_ —and lifted by strong arms.  
  
_I don’t need to be carried like a baby,_  Dick wants to protest. Even though he’s as weak as one. Too weak to do anything but relax into the safe, warm darkness that surrounds him. He wants to fall asleep—if only Bruce would stop telling him urgently to stay awake.  
  


—

  
The last of the guards inside have been restrained and League members are chasing down any attempting to flee. They have it under control, so Clark separates from the group and flies through the corridors of the compound in search of Bruce or Dick. He turns a corner and stops when he sees Bruce walking briskly towards him with his cape off and wrapped around the boy he’s carrying.   
  
Clark is alarmed by how weak Dick’s heartbeat is. He has to focus hard just to hear it. “Is he okay?”  
  
Dick is shivering uncontrollably. His lips are tinted blue from cold and so are his toes poking out from underneath the cape. He’s unresponsive, his eyes closed. At least he’s breathing. Shallow, snuffly breaths, but enough proof that he’s alive.  
  
“He needs medical attention,” Bruce says, not pausing in his stride. “The rest of you finish up here; I’m taking him back to Gotham.”  
  
Clark knows that what Bruce really means, and what he’s desperately wanted to be able to say for weeks now, is: “I’m taking him  _home_.”  
  


—

  
Bruce coaxes every bit of speed from the Batplane. With the strain he’s putting on the engines, there will be major repairs to take care of later. He doesn’t worry about that right now.  
  
He doesn’t worry about anything but Dick shivering in the other seat. Dick is wrapped in blankets and hooked up to a machine that allows Bruce to keep an eye on his vitals through the computer system. So far Bruce can tell that he isn’t hypothermic, not in a normal way. The symptoms aren’t what they should be for such a severe level of freezing. His heartbeat and respiration are already strong, risen to near-normal levels, which—although strange—is a promising sign.  
  
Bruce reminds himself to run a blood test as soon as they arrive home to identify the gas compounds used to put Dick in stasis, in case of side-effects. He also needs to thoroughly study that cryogenic technology, but that can wait until later.  
  
They’re more than halfway to Gotham City when Dick’s shivering eases up enough for him to force out a few recognizable words.  
  
“‘B-Bout t-t-time,” he croaks through chattering teeth,  
  
“ _‘Bout time,_ ” Dick said back then, in Bialya, weakly squinting up at Bruce from the floor of the dark, concrete cell. One of his eyes was bruised black and swollen shut. Bruce was so relieved to see him alive—alive and uninjured except for a few bruises, when he had been fearing the worst—that he allowed himself to relax, thinking that his ward was safe.   
  
But he was wrong. While he was taking that boy home, Dick was countries away, being experimented on and forced into a cold prison.  
  
Presently, Dick groans in pain. “I f-f-feel like ‘m on f-fire,” he complains, his eyes squeezed shut. “ _Hurts._ ”  
  
Bruce takes one hand away from the jet’s controls and briefly places it against Dick’s clammy forehead in an attempt to comfort. The boy’s face is the only part of him not bundled up in blankets. “Just try to stay awake,” Bruce tells him firmly. He’s worried about how difficult it may be to awaken Dick again if he slips asleep. “Keep talking, if it helps. We’ll be in Gotham soon.”  
  


—

  
“They took blood samples and x-rays,” Dick says, trying to recount everything that happened to him during his capture to Bruce and Alfred standing by the side of his bed. “And a bunch of other scans and tests. I was under some sedation, so I couldn’t— I couldn’t fight them. When they were putting me in the— the cryo-pod, I tried to get away, but—”  
  
His voice breaks with a sharp wheeze as he remembers it all. Remembers trying to twist himself free and clumsily lash out at the doctors with his fists and bare feet, and getting a needle jammed in his arm in return. Even through that haze, he knew exactly what was happening when the door of the pod slammed shut, trapping him inside. He pounded and scrabbled feebly against the ice-cold glass with his hands until he lost the energy to do anything at all and drowsiness overtook him—from both the drugs and the intense cold seeping under his skin—and he knew that he had to stay awake to fight and free himself, but he couldn’t even win the fight against his heavy eyelids, and the cold had stopped stinging so much. He remembers that the numbness was almost pleasant.  
  
Alfred pats him on the arm as he takes a deep, shaky breath and tries to stop his hands from trembling. Dick gives a small smile and puts aside the bad memories. It’s over now. He’s home. He will be fine.  
  
He is getting better, though he’s nowhere near one hundred percent yet—he has a lot of recovering to do. His limbs are heavy and weak. He’s still cold. It’s like an icy, metallic ache in his joints, causing him frequent bouts of uncontrollable shivering. Breathing feels like more of a struggle than it should be, and any time he coughs or wheezes Bruce and Alfred look over in fear that he’s developing pneumonia.  
  
Bruce looks calm, but a line in his neck tenses in a way that means he’s barely holding back his fury for the people who did this. “It’s all right,” he assures Dick. “You’re okay now. Do you remember anything else? Do you know what they looked like?”  
  
Dick shakes his head and explains that they wore masks. He can approximate heights, weights, and body types, and pin most of their accents, but that’s not much to go on.  
  
“When can I see everyone else?” He’s antsy to go to Mount Justice and visit his friends. He wants to get out of this bed and start training, get through the physiotherapy so he can become strong enough to fight again.  _He’s bored._  
  
Bruce and Alfred exchange a glance. Usually Dick is pretty good at interpreting those but this one is beyond him. He’s been out of the loop too long. Something’s happened. Dick arches a questioning eyebrow at them, waiting for an answer.  
  
The answer isn’t the one he’s looking for. “Soon,” promises Bruce.   
  
He ruffles Dick’s hair before he turns to leave—plenty of business to deal with in the aftermath of the rescue—and any other time it would make Dick beam happily. There’s so much packed into that small, rare action— _”I’m glad you’re okay”_  and  _“I’m sorry”_ and  _“I was scared we lost you”_  and everything else Bruce isn’t capable of saying out loud (but Dick doesn’t need him to).  
  
This time, though, something seems wrong. They’re keeping a secret from him.  
  
Dick narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Bruce, what aren’t you telling me?” he asks under his breath.  
  


—

  
They break the news to him when they’re sure he’s strong enough to take it. The stasis chemicals are still working through his system. Bruce and Alfred are worried about his heart, that it’s taken too much stress from his short stint as an icicle and his return to the world of the living, so they stall as much as possible.   
  
He gives them the ultimatum of them telling him what’s going on or him dragging himself out of bed to learn for himself, and only then do they tell him, choosing their words carefully.  
  
At first he thinks they’re joking.  
  
But Bruce is scarily serious and this kind of joke isn’t Alfred’s style—he’s all dry snark and Britishness—and if it is a joke it’s a terrible, cruel one. They would never do that to him.  
  
Bruce explains everything, and Dick wishes that he could be wrong for once. He isn’t. It makes too much sense and the evidence he gives is too clear. Bruce shows Dick photos, and videos of what looks to Dick like himself except he doesn’t remember saying any of that, and there’s footage of himself training except he’s never flubbed up that flip before—he can do it in his sleep.  
  
They give him a couple hours to process it, to rest and think, and then he meets the clone.  
  
He never realized he was so short compared to Bruce.  
  
Maybe he’s still loopy from being frozen—it’s easy to blame crazy cryogenic chemicals—because that is his first impression and it’s ridiculous. He is sitting up in bed, staring at  _himself_  standing next to Bruce, and all he can think about is how he looks so much smaller than Bruce. Part of that could be because the clone’s posture is hunched as though trying to make himself shrink small enough to disappear.  
  
He almost laughs. He takes a breath and almost lets out a nervous laugh, but then he notices other things about the clone, things he was trying to ignore. Like that he has the same blue eyes Dick got from his mom and same big ears that Wally always teases him about. The other boy’s even wearing his clothes. And the laughter dies before it starts.  
  
His stomach seizes up and tries to crawl out of his throat, and he can’t speak, can’t breathe. An itch in his lungs turns into a fit of dry, choking coughs that has Alfred moving closer to his bedside just in case and Bruce tensing and frowning in concern.  
  
While they’re distracted, the clone takes a step back like he wants to slip out the door, but Bruce stops him by placing a hand between his shoulder blades and nudging him forward.  
  
“He…” Dick says when he catches his breath. The words get stuck. Dick clears his throat and tries again. “He—”  
  
“I took your place,” the clone blurts out. Dick is sure that the clone’s voice is identical to his own, but he can’t tell. It sounds strange to his own ears.  
  
“Oh my god,” Dick says hoarsely, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry. You must hate me, right?”  
  
Dick’s not upset about getting captured. Stuff like that happens. It’s one of the hazards of the job, and it didn’t go as badly as it could have. He’ll get over it. And he definitely doesn’t blame the clone for any of it. He feels sorry for this boy that was lied to and treated like a pawn.   
  
And now Dick’s here and taking back what the clone can’t have any longer. What the clone honestly believed belonged to him. So if Dick is hated for that, he understands.  
  
The clone opens his mouth—probably going to deny it, say that Dick should hate  _him_ —but a conflicted look flashes across his face and he stops. And even without an answer, Dick knows that he’s right.

 

—

  
Leaving in the middle of the night, under cover of darkness, isn’t a good idea. That’s when the inhabitants of the Manor are most awake. Instead he leaves just after Bruce returns from patrol, checks in on the real Dick, and goes to bed. It’s half an hour to sunrise when he sneaks through the house, shouldering a backpack. He is mindful of the creaky floorboards as he heads for the side door by the kitchen.  
  
He isn’t scared of what he might face out there, or that he’ll be alone. Over the past few days he snuck some small tools and pieces of equipment from the Batcave, carefully enough that Bruce didn’t notice, and he’s wearing one of the thin kevlar undershirts—the ones they use for undercover work—beneath his sweater. It’s enough to keep himself safe.  
  
This is all he needs.  
  
The other boy doesn’t sneak up on him. He couldn’t possibly, not with limbs that stiff and shaky from a couple of months frozen in ice. The  _pat pat_  of footsteps on hardwood is obvious in the quiet hallway.  
  
“You’re leaving,” says the voice behind him.  
  
He turns and sees the real Dick, barefoot and wearing pajamas.   
  
“You don’t have to go,” the original says. “I mean it. I don’t want you to leave. We can figure this out if you just give it a chance. We can even share Robin. When one of us is on a mission with the Team, the other can be in Gotham. And we can team up sometimes and seriously freak the baddies out.” He keeps rambling, like the more he says the more convincing he’ll be. “I don’t know what we’ll do about school… Long-lost twin isn’t the most unbelievable thing, is it? Crazier things have happened in this city.”   
  
Dick shakes his head silently. It’s the same hopeful fairy-tale the real Dick’s been babbling about for days. It won’t work. Something like this won’t just  _work_.  
  
Dick can’t stay here another minute. He just can’t. He got M’gann to blur his memories of his own parents and friends just so he could distance himself from this other boy. Staying here would ruin his plans for a fresh start.    
  
The original Dick tries and fails to hide a shiver. He really shouldn’t be out of bed. “Listen, I’m sorry I freaked out a little bit at first. It was… a lot to take in. But I’m serious—I don’t want you to leave. You’re sort of the closest still-breathing blood relative I have left,” he says quietly. “Bruce doesn’t want you to go, either. He’ll look for you.”  
  
“Tell him not to bother. I don’t need to be found. I don’t want to be. Don’t think I’m doing this because I want him to search for me like he searched for you.”  
  
“So, why are you leaving?”  
  
Dick’s hand tightens on the strap of his backpack. “I’m going to find the people that created me,” he says. “And I’m going to make every one of them pay.”  
  
“No. You can’t,” the original says immediately. He looks like he’s one hundred percent certain, and to Dick that strikes a nerve. He doesn’t want to be told what to do, especially not by  _him_. “That’s actually impossible. They said you have my memories. That you feel like you’re  _me_. And if that’s the case, then there’s no way you can mean what you’re saying. Except… You do mean it, don’t you?” The real Dick cocks his head to the side and studies his clone, trying to spot what the problem is. “What… What  _happened_?”  
  
Dick avoids the other boy’s eyes. Only M’gann and himself know how she helped him. She did a really good job. It’s exactly what he wanted. His old memories are still there, but he doesn’t feel the same emotional attachments to them. Without all of that, he’s left with an easy clarity. He doesn’t have to be sad or regretful any longer. It’s better, in a way that nobody but himself would be able to understand.  
  
“Just don’t be mad at M’gann,” he says, feeling a stab of guilt as he remembers her troubled face. “It’s not her fault. It was totally my decision.”  
  
“What was?” the real Dick asks, looking a little frightened. He takes a few steps closer, reaching out to tug on his clone’s arm. “Tell me.”  
  
On instinct, Dick swats the boy’s hand away and shoves him back. The real Dick’s still weak, so the push—though it wasn’t intended to be forceful—sends him colliding against the wall. He doesn’t seem angry. Not even surprised. He slowly straightens up, holding on to the wall for support, then brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks at the other sadly.   
  
Dick can tell that he’s about to start asking him to stay again. Or about to apologize. The apologies are the worst. Dick doesn’t need an apology from person who’s obviously the victim in this situation.  _He’s_  the usurper. He’s the one who should be giving an apology… but he can’t make himself say one out loud. Even right now, he can’t do it.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Dick tells the original.  
  
“For what?”  
  
“For keeping your life warm for you while you were on ice.”  
  
He pulls the hood of his sweater up over his head and slips through the door without any more hesitation. Bruce must have heard that thud against the wall, and by the time he makes it down the stairs Dick plans to be long gone.


End file.
